


We Met Over Coffee

by tyrsdayschild



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Coffee Shops, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:28:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28785687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrsdayschild/pseuds/tyrsdayschild
Summary: Drabble for Tweedle!Logan meets a handsome stranger in a coffee shop, and can't get him out of his head.
Relationships: Logan (X-Men)/Scott Summers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	We Met Over Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KiAnLake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiAnLake/gifts).



It was some hip little coffee shop in the Village- the sort of place Logan ordinarily wouldn’t be caught dead at, but it was cold as hell and he was in the neighborhood for work and he needed caffeine more than a dog needed a bone.

The problem was, it was crowded as shit, and ther was only one worker behind the counter, frantically taking orders and making them simultaneously. Logan bit his tongue, trying not to voice his frustration as he stewed and wishing he was still allowed to smoke indoors. He tracked the barista’s movements with his eyes, wondering how long it took to brew a fucking cup of black coffee. Finally, he saw her deposit several cups on the small counter, shouting “Order up for Scott, Bobby, and Efyu!”

Oh, hardy-ha-ha, Logan thought, remembering the woman asking him his name and his reply, and he shouldered past a couple twenty-somethings hovering near the counter.

“’scuse me,” one of them said, reaching over him with an irritatingly long arm to grab two cups. Logan felt his hackles rise at the invasion of his personal space, the taller man pressed up against his back in the small crowded shop, almost hugging him. Logan leaned back, pressing against him as he shoved.

“Back off,” he growled, looking over his shoulder- and up into the strangers face.

Logan didn’t want to admit it, but he was exactly his type. Strong jawline, sharp cheek bones, brown hair curling just past his ears, practically asking to be tugged. The man was flushed a little, maybe from the cold or from Logan’s shove. He was wearing mirrored specs and looking down at the ground.

“Sorry,” the stranger mumbled, and quickly walked away out the door, a slightly younger boy at his heels, grabbing one of the paper cups.

Logan looked down, and realized the stranger had taken the wrong one- and he was left with a cup labeled “Bobby”.

The sugar bomb he’d been left with was damn near undrinkable, thick with cream and chocolate and cinnamon syrup. The stranger- Bobby- he’d had the look of a college boy, all clean pressed khaki’s and white button downs. It was a sweet drink for a sweet kid, one who hadn’t learned to choke down bitterness, hadn’t learned to enjoy it.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, the lack of sleep, the bone deep loneliness that came from working undercover for years, but Logan couldn’t get him out of his head. He remembered the shy, flustered look on the other man’s face, pictured getting him out of his clean clothes, lying beneath him naked on a bed, or holding himself up above him, shyly asking if he was doing it write. The day went on- the weeks went on- jobs came and went and Logan left the States and came back and he still returned to the fantasy of Bobby, of teaching him a thing or two, making a man out of him.

Needless to say, it was a shock, years later, when he came to the euphemistically named “Xavier Institute for the Gifted” and found him again.

“Bobby, right?” he asked. Bobby wrinkled his nose, giving him an odd look.

“Scott,” he said, “Have we… met?”

He was very different from the soft college boy his memory recalled- he had callouses on his hands when they shook, an iron hard grip, a steely determination to his voice.

We met over coffee, Logan thought but he said, “Guess not.”


End file.
